Outlined in black silhouette against the whitening horizons, the sentries, tiny and slow-moving in the distance, tramped from post to post in a forward-leaning line.  Soldiers began to shout to each other.  The clanking of many arms made another and a harsher music.  The tumult of thousands of voices burdened the wind and above this presently arose the eager and expectant whinnyings of a multitude of war-horses.

While the army broke its fast and prepared to move the king stood in the open space before his tent, with his eyes on the east.  The Red Sea lay there beyond the uplifted line of desert sand, and it was the birthplace of many mists and unpropitious signs.

Would the sun look upon the king through a veil, or openly?  Would he smile upon the purposes of the Pharaoh?

There were striations, watery and colorless, in the lower slopes of the morning sky, and these were taking on the light of dawn without its hues.  Long wind-blown streaks crossed the zenith from east to west and the setting stars were blurred.  The moon had worn a narrowing circlet in the night.  Meneptah shook his head.

Suddenly some one in the ranks of the royal guard exclaimed to a mate: 

“Look!  Look to the southeast!”

Meneptah turned his eyes in that direction, as though he had been commanded.  There, above the spot where he had guessed the Israelites to be, a straight and mighty column of vapor extended up, up into the smoky blue of the sky.  The tortuous shapes of the striations across the zenith indicated that there was great wind at that height, but the column did not move or change its form.  It was further distinguished from the clouds over the dawn, by a fine amber light upon it, deepening to gold in its shadows.  So vivid the tint, that steady contemplation was necessary to assure the beholders that it was not fire, climbing in and out of the pillar’s heart.  Egypt’s skies were rarely clouded and never by such a formation as this.

Meneptah turned his troubled eyes hurriedly toward the east.  He must not miss the sunrise.  At that moment, unheralded, the disk of the sun shot above the horizon as if blown from a crater of the under-world—­blurred, milky-white, without warmth.

He turned away and faced Nechutes, bending before him; behind the cup-bearer, a stately stranger—­Kenkenes.

“A message for thee, O Son of Ptah,” Nechutes said.

At a sign from the king, the messenger came forward, knelt and delivered the scroll.  The king looked at the writing on the wrapping.

“From whom dost thou bring this?” he asked.

“From Jambres, the mystic, O Son of Ptah.”

“Ah!” It was the tone of one who has his surmises proved.  “Now, what is contained herein?”

Kenkenes took it that the inquiry called for an answer.

“A warning, O King.”

“How dost thou know?”

“The purport of the message was told me ere I departed.”